PowerPoint
by Ichireiro
Summary: If the boy wasn't British, he might be sexy.
1. Thanks, Teacher

**A/N: **Another chapter fic already, huh? ._. Damn, I never learn. I have a ton of homework that I need to do, but whatever. Now, I'm not sure where I want to go with this thing after this chapter, so don't expect much from me. If you've read my other SP fics, well, welcome to another one. And if you haven't, then hello there, new reader. Welcome to the madhouse~ Yeah, I'm weird. Whatever. Now, back to the fic. I'm honestly not sure what the pairings will be other than Tweek/Butters, Pip/Christophe, and one-sided Pip/Damien. ..Yeah. This thing is probably gonna get weird. Oh well. Let the oddness begin then~

And a warning—this thing is both perverted and slash. I mean it. If I get any flames after I warned you, I'mma be pissed. :|

**...**

Pip thought that technology was a beautiful thing. The things you could do with computers these days! Oh, they were just _wonderful_! A never-ending adventure! America had _such_ amazing advances in computer programs! It was one more thing that Pip loved about the country he had the privilege to call his home.

Something he _didn't_ love though—and there weren't many things that Pip _didn't_ love; he was a kind-hearted, loving, boy by nature, so it had to be something _awful_ if he didn't like it—was the assignment that he had been given by his teacher just moments before.

It didn't matter that it involved technology or that his teacher had assigned them all partners so Pip didn't have to work alone for once—his partner was the _problem_.

Christophe.

Pip liked most people, he really did. It didn't matter that almost everyone in the school hated him—those that didn't usually ignored him—and that they picked on him relentlessly. He could forgive them for that; he was an outsider, different from them, and people feared things that they didn't understand, things that weren't like them. He was a bright boy—usually, anyway—so he understood that, he really did. He didn't hold grudges, he didn't _hate_; such things seemed too horrible to him to even consider.

Unless, of course, it involved his patriotism. Like the Americans, he disliked people for being different—like any proud Brit would, he had a grudge against the French.

And Christophe was French.

He could forgive the children in his grade for calling him French time and time again. They simply did not realize how deeply Pip _disliked_ the French, how shameful it would be for any Brit to even _associate _with someone from the God-awful country.

And, dear Lord, their teacher had stuck him with _Christophe. _

Maybe she had done it on purpose; she didn't seem to like him any more than her other students did. He could understand how she felt—he was feeling the same dislike she probably felt for him for the boy currently sitting by him.

_Christophe_.

He couldn't get over it. The boy smelt like smoke, which Pip didn't like; it was okay when the smell was coming from his friend Damien because the boy from from Hell, which had fire and brimstone, so he had an excuse. Christophe, on the other hand, didn't have one as far as Pip could see. He was just a smoker, just a boy with a nasty addiction.

"Will you pay azzention already? Jesus _Christ!_"

And that was another thing that Pip didn't like about the French boy—who was he to order Pip around? Pip would let the other kids in his class boss him around in the hopes that it would make them eventually see that he would make a great friend, but Christophe? He didn't _want_ to be the French boy's friend—he didn't even want to be his _partner_.

"_Don't_ raise your voice to him."

Pip hadn't heard Damien come up behind him—the boy-slash-demon could be so _quiet_ when he wanted to be—but he _did_ feel when the taller boy's arms wrapped protectively around his slim waist. Pip was a lot smaller than Damien—Damien would tease him, telling the blond that it was by at least two feet, but Pip didn't think that the distance between them was really _that_ large; it wasn't, but it was by at least a foot—and his back fit firmly against the taller boy's chest; they did this—Damien held him like this—so often that Pip didn't think it odd in the least bit.

Christophe, on the other hand, obviously did; he raised an eyebrow in question. It wasn't like he hadn't heard rumors about the two boys being together—in a small town like South Park, everybody knew everybody else's business—and it wasn't like he had a problem with two males being together—Christophe himself was bisexual—but hearing about something and seeing it was two very different things.

"What? Iz he your boyfriend?"

Christophe had expected Damien to blow up—the raven haired boy's temper was as bad as his own, if not worse—but instead he simply raised a dark eyebrow, matching Christophe's expression. He seemed calm and collected, something the Prince of Hell rarely was, but the boy he had wrapped himself around seemed the opposite; Pip's face was flushed a bright red, and it only seemed to be getting darker, which probably had something to do with the fact that Damien's hand was sneaking its way into his shirt, rubbing across his tight stomach. He could see Pip swallow, could hear the boy _whine_ in the back of his throat, and try to get away from his captor.

If the boy wasn't _British_, he might be sexy.

"O-oh, g-good heavens, n-no! M-me and Damien a-aren't an i-item!"

Pip usually wasn't one for stuttering; his English was as proper as the day was long. Damien still had his hand moving around under his shirt though, and if Christophe had to guess, he would say that the Prince's fingers were brushing over the Brit's nipples teasingly. Pip was begging—_begging—_Damien for him to let go, but the demon wasn't listening. Pip's jacket and shirt were riding up, showing a strip of the blonde's stomach; Christophe's dark eyes followed it before they moved back up to track Damien's movements; the boy was nipping at the blonde's neck, leaving dark red marks behind in his tracks.

_'Something so fragile looking should not be treated so harshly.'_

Christophe kept the thought to himself, of course; as entertaining as it would be to watch the British boy, the most feminine boy he had possibly ever met in his life, defend his manhood—being called fragile simply was not manly, but neither was Pip, for that matter—he would wait until Damien was gone.

Besides, a live-action porn show seemed to be unfolding in front of his very eyes. Pip obviously didn't want any part in it, but Damien on the other hand... The boy didn't seem to be stopping anytime soon, and Christophe was curious to see how long the Brit could go without giving in to him.

Pip saying that they weren't an 'item' only seemed to incourage Damien; the hand that wasn't now rubbing circles on the boy's smooth stomach—and Christophe imagined the boy _did_ have a smooth stomach, a stomach that his own calloused hand would feel good running over—had moved to cup one of Pip's ass cheeks.

And what an ass it was. Christophe felt his gaze move down to get a good look at it; he had noticed it before, but he had never been so close to the boy to really _evaluate _it. It was plump, but not _too_ plump, full, but not too round.

It looked like like the kind of ass that Christophe would like to-

He wasn't going to finish that thought. He wasn't going to think about eating out a _British_ boy's ass, nor was he going to think about pounding into it.

He brought his gaze up to look at the slim boy's still flushed face, but quickly diverted his gaze from there too; thoughts of the boy's full _lips_ had moved into his head this time, and it would do him no good to think about them on his cock either.

A stray thought popped into Christophe's head—he began to wonder if Pip sucked Damien's cock. He looked like the type who would be shy, _hesitant_, to go down, but once he did, he would be _so fucking brilliant_ at it. He imagined Pip would quickly grow accustomed to having the organ in his mouth, the weight of it on his pink little tongue; Christophe could also picture that same pale tongue darting out to lick at the head while the boy's hands cupped his balls or stroked his shaft.

His thoughts moved on to wonder if Pip would ever suck _his_ cock; if Pip would take his balls into his mouth or hold them in hands. If the boy's mouth was as warm as Christophe would bet it would be, if those plump lips would feel as good against his skin as they looked like they would. How soft would Pip's hair feel as he tugged on it? Would the boy let him thrust up into his mouth? Would he let him finish on his face?

With these kind of thoughts running through his head, it shouldn't have shocked him to find that he was hard, but it did; he was shocked that thoughts of Philip Pirrup had made him pop a boner in the middle of class.

Lowering his eyebrow, he turned back to the computer that he bad been focusing on before Damien had shown up and ruined his concentration.

"We have work to 'inish."


	2. Drape

Damien was Pip's best friend in the whole world. Damien was Pip's _only_ friend in the whole world.

It didn't matter that Damien had betrayed him when they were kids; Pip had never been angry at him for it. Not even for a second. Most people would have been furious, would have been _hurt_, by the betrayal, but not Pip.

Pip wasn't like most people.

Damien had realized it the very first time he had met the outcast, but he didn't realize how truly _different _the boy was compared to the other town members of South Park until he made his second—and longer—visit to Earth in the sixth grade.

When Damien saw the blond for the first time after his return, he had expected anger or fear, not the joy he had seen clearly written on Pip's face when he saw that his childhood friend had returned. He had expected Pip to run screaming in the opposite direction, not _towards_ the teenage Damien, and he _definitely_ hadn't expected Pip to wrap his long arms around his waist and _hug_. Pip's grip had been tight, tighter than someone as small as him should be able to hug, and Damien had been too momentarily shocked that _someone was fucking __**hugging **__him _to do anything. Really, who did this mortal think he _was_? Pip Pirrup, of course—and Pip Pirrup was not shy when it came to trying to make friends with someone.

And Pip Pirrup was determined to become his friend once again.

Damien, coming out of his small moment of shock, pushed the boy away. It was too late though; Pip had set his crystal blue eyes on becoming Damien's friend, and that was that. No matter how hard the raven haired boy tried to get rid of the blond, Pip wouldn't leave.

And after a while, Damien had realized that he didn't want him to.

They were physically close; so much so that the people of South Park had assumed they were dating—and Damien wouldn't mind if they _were_. He had become accustomed to draping himself over Pip whenever he wanted, and though the blond would always become embarrassed, Damien knew Pip didn't mind the contact; Pip just didn't want people to think less of him than they already did.

Damien was only half human; the other part of him was that of a demon, and that meant that his hormones were a lot stronger than the average mortal's. He had been attracted to Pip the moment he had laid eyes on him after coming back—another reason he didn't immediately shove the other boy away—and after a year of being around the other boy nearly everyday, he felt like he needed something more other than the occasional hug or pat on the shoulder.

So, Damien being Damien, he lied to get what he wanted. The lie was ridiculous, he knew, but it worked.

Pip got bullied a lot—that was an understatement. Damien had tried to beat the hell out of the boys doing it, occasionally even killing them, but the kids never seemed to learn their lesson. So, he thought outside of the box, coming up with an idea that would let him touch Pip whenever he wanted in the process.

Being openly homosexual apparently made people uncomfortable, even IF the other person you were behaving that way with looked like the opposite gender. He tested this theory when he caught Craig Tucker and his gang picking on defenseless Pip one day—coming up behind the blond, he placed his hands on Pip's slim hips and kissed at the back of the boy's neck. Pip had jumped at first, not realizing who he was, and had tried to get away from him. Damien had murmured a low "Relax, I have a plan" into the back of his neck, still kissing and nipping at it, and Pip had calmed down, the boy realizing that he was in good hands—literally; Damien's hands were now rubbing up and down his sides and it felt _so good._ So good that Pip almost didn't hear the taunts that the other boys sent his way, he almost didn't register the fact that Damien would probably hunt them down and tear off their skin later. He couldn't bring himself to care at the moment—had Damien's hand slipped into the back of his shirt and jacket without him taking notice of it? It felt like something was rubbing his back—and the bullies were leaving now anyway, having finally realized that they were just going to be ignored.

_"D-Damien...You give good massages."_

_Damien had chuckled, the sound deep; he had deeper voice than most of the boys in their grade._

_"Maybe I'll give you a full body one later."_

After that, Pip didn't question him grabbing him in public; he didn't question Damien's excuse for touching him. If Damien's hands found their way into his shirt, he didn't think anything of it. If Damien grabbed him by the hips, his slim fingers rubbing them, he didn't ask why. If Damien's hard-on—and he _always_ had one when they were pressed together—pressed tightly against Pip's firm ass, Pip didn't say a word about it.

So it was pissing Damien off that Pip was trying to get away from him in front of the fucking _French kid._ The kid had yelled at the blond, but maybe he didn't feel at risk; maybe that was why he was pulling up such a fit at being molested. Or maybe Pip just didn't want to feel awkward around Christophe since the two of them had to work together for an extended period of time.

Or maybe it was because their teacher was giving them a weird look.

Either way, it was irritating him. Pip was his—his only, even though the blond didn't realize it—and he was making an exception because of _Christophe_; he wouldn't let Damien _touch_ him, something he had been doing for years, because of fucking _Christophe._

He was marking Pip, biting him harder than he usually would—another reason Pip might be trying to get away, though he didn't consider that one—to show Christophe who Pip Pirrup belonged to; Damien was part demon, part man, but both parts were equally possessive of things that they believed belonged to them, and Pip happened to be one of those things.

Damien had noticed the way Christophe had looked Pip over, had noticed the way the boy's eyes had lingered, had noticed the fucking _hard-on_ the kid had, and though Damien didn't know if Christophe himself realized it or not yet, he was certain that the French kid wanted what was his.

It was a shame that he would have to kill him after him and Pip were graded on their project. He had heard Christophe hated God as much as he did, and they could have been friends.

Damien had been in love with Pip since sixth grade though, and the blond was more important than a potential minion.


	3. Terrible Child

Pip loved Damien, he really did. He didn't think that he was _in_ love with him, no, but that didn't mean that he didn't _love_ his friend, that he didn't care for him. Damien took care of him, after all.

Pip's parents had died when he was just a boy, and his sister didn't care much for him, though he couldn't understand why; he had tried to be a good boy, a good _ward_, picking up around the house and doing whatever she would say. It hadn't been enough though, and she didn't love him.

Perhaps that was why Pip cared for Damien as much as he did; he didn't have any other source of affection. That didn't seem right though—Pip cared for Damien because it was _Damien_. Because it was the boy who would tear kids apart—even though Pip really didn't condone such actions—for hurting him. Because it was the boy who had _demon blood_ running through his veins, yet he had enough compassion inside of him to protect Pip from bullies or other sources of harm; an example of said sources of harm would be the time that Damien had pulled him out of the way of a falling sign, and even if Pip ever found out that Damien had made the sign fall on purpose to land on Eric Cartman (Damien couldn't understand how it had missed his fat ass), well, Pip wouldn't be any less grateful. Because it was the boy who had been his very _first _friend in South Park, and all firsts should be special.

Which was why Pip wouldn't let Damien take his first kiss.

Despite how intimate they were at times, they weren't actually _lovers_, and Pip was a firm believer that only lovers kissed on the mouth—which was something that Damien had tried to do to him repeatedly. Granted, he hadn't tried it in public yet, so Pip really shouldn't complain about it too much, but the prince tried it almost every time he was at Pip's house—which was almost every day.

Which didn't make much sense to Pip when he thought about it; Damien was only touching him in public to keep bullies away, after all, right?

When he had brought the thought up to Damien, the raven haired boy hadn't hesitated to answer his question—"_For practice. They might adjust to me just touching you one day, and a kiss might shock them enough to make them leave us alone. You want to look prepared, don't you? To make it look like it's something that we actually __**do**__? They won't buy it unless it looks like it's something we've actually __**done**__ before."—_so Pip didn't think to question whether or not his friend was lying about his reasons for being so close to him.

Lately, though...

Damien was getting bolder, was _touching_ him when they weren't being harassed. It made Pip wonder at times. What if his friend wanted something more? How would he handle that? It could ruin the only friendship he had, but at the same time...

At the same time it could be so _brilliant_.

Pip had to really stop and think about it. Did he want—but oh, he was being distracted from his thoughts by Christophe.

_Christophe._

Damien had left them alone so they could get back to work. It had taken quite a bit of convincing—Pip didn't want to admit that he had to _beg_ quite a bit; it brought a flush to his cheeks, embarrassing him to be brought so low, and his face had _just_ gone back to its normal color—but it had been _Pip _to be the only one to do it, not their teacher who had finally come out of her shock from seeing Damien molesting the blond boy in front of the whole class; _"O-oh, Damien, please, __**please **__go back to your seat. We'll never get finished with you over here, and besides, she looks one acorn toss away from giving you detention." _

Damien wouldn't actually _go_ to detention, of course, but Pip would lecture him on it later; he was a proper student, after all, and though he never got detentions, he would go to them if he _did_. Besides, neither Pip _or_ Damien wanted Pip to work with Christophe, and the faster that they finished what they were doing, the faster the blond would be _away_ from the French boy.

The French boy with lovely eyes, Pip noticed.

Eyes were really one of the first things that Pip noticed about people when he met them for the first time. Damien's eye color he noticed right away, of course—who _wouldn't_ notice when someone had blood-red eyes?

Christophe's eyes though...

He didn't like the boy, which may have been why he had never _noticed_ them before. They were an interesting shade of brown though—dark, almost dark enough to be _black_; Pip briefly wondered if _Christophe_ was part demon like Damien, but the thought was ridiculous, so he dismissed it until later. They were eyes Pip wouldn't mind gazing into, eyes that had _depth._

They were also eyes that were narrowing at him—he had been caught staring. Oh dear.

"If you are quite finished _staring _at me like zat,we have work to do, enfant terrible."

Pip felt his face heat up once again that day. He looked away, breaking eye contact and swearing to himself that he wasn't going to so much as _look_ at Christophe again, but it he was curious—what had the boy said to him in French? It didn't sound very friendly... Pip had heard something that sounded like the English word for "terrible", and he knew _that_ wasn't good. He wasn't going to ask Christophe about it though; that would involve _speaking_ to the boy, which wasn't that something he planned on doing unless he absolutely _had_ to.

The word Christophe had spoken to him—French didn't sound as bad as he thought it would coming from the other boy, though he would rather die than ever admit that out loud—wasn't the only thing Pip was curious about though; it was his eyes again.

Those eyes, eyes that seemed like they could stare into someone's very _soul_, those eyes he could _fall into? __They_ were something Pip was curious about.

He broke the promise that he had made to himself only moments earlier—if a promise was broken, it was a horrible thing, but it wasn't as bad if you broke it to _yourself _and not to another person, so Pip didn't feel _too _guilty—and glanced another look at Christophe.

Only to be caught staring again.


	4. You Can't Always Get What You Want

Their project was a simple one—use PowerPoint to make a presentation about the effect that foreigners in the U.S. were having on the economy. Perhaps their teacher had thought that it would be funny or productive to pair up the only two foreign kids in the class. It made a bit of sense if one really stopped to think about it.

Christophe didn't think that it was funny though, and he _definitely _didn't think that it was productive.

Pip wouldn't do a damn thing that he suggested—Christophe wouldn't listen to the British boy's ideas either; though Pip was usually timid, he seemed as stubborn as Christophe was when it came to certain things—and though the boy's love for technology was obvious, so was his ignorance of it; Christophe didn't know much about computer programs either—he had better things to do than sit on his ass all day at a computer; besides, he was usually grounded from anything that his mother thought might he might consider fun, but since the stupid bitch didn't know what his idea of fun _was_, she just grounded him from everything that she could think of—but at least he didn't make as many mistakes as the blond boy did.

Besides, Pip was distracting him from doing his work, and the kid didn't even realize it. The blonde's smell was surrounding him—Pip had to sit close to him so they could both see their computer; the school was lacking sufficient funds, so the boy's had to share one—and it was making it hard for him to focus. He hated, absolutely _hated_, the scent that was coming off of Pirrup.

Even if he smelt of lemons, which was a smell that Christophe was particularly fond of.

The smell seemed fitting for the boy in a way; they were both yellow—well, Pip's hair was yellow, anyway—and fruity.

"Will you move _over_ alreazy? Jesus _Christ_."

But Pip _didn't_ move over; to Christophe's horror, the kid moved _closer_. The boy never did seem like he would know very much about personal space—Damien aside, Christophe had noticed that Pip would pat people on the shoulder or lean in close to them if he got the chance to do so; Christophe had also noticed that Damien never seemed to appreciate such actions—but as much as the boy detested him—and Pip didn't try to hide the fact that he wasn't a fan of the French—he still sat close enough to Christophe for the smell of him to begin to drive the boy _crazy_.

With want.

Christophe DeLorn wanted Pip Pirrup.

He wanted to push the boy back onto a bed—not _shove_, just _push_; there wouldn't be very much strength behind it, which would probably be something new and very welcomed for the blond boy; Christophe couldn't help but picture Damien roughly shoving Pip up against a wall and fucking the boy until he bleed—and _show_ him why the French were lovers, not fighters.

Pip was _British_ though, so Christophe couldn't show him his side as a lover—just as a fighter. Christophe didn't mind either; Pip Pirrup had never been on his radar of potential lovers before, and Christophe wasn't going to try anything with a British kid anyway. Besides, Damien would kill him for it, and Christophe wasn't quite ready to go back to Hell just yet.

But if Pip didn't stop surrounding him in that _smell_ within the next twenty seconds, Christophe was going to show him what it was like having a mercenary pissed off at you.

Or he was just going to offer to let the kid suck his cock.

Or he could suck _Pip's _cock.

All of the options seemed like they would be equally good, and it was irritating Christophe to no end; he didn't _want_ to suck off a British boy. He didn't _want_ to swallow the boy's load whole to see if it would taste just as bitter as Pip's attitude towards him was.

But he did. Christophe had never seen the use in lying to himself—God hated him? So what. His mother tried to kill him? Big deal—and he didn't want to start doing it just because he wanted to press his lips against the boy sitting so close, he could feel his breath.

And those lips would be smooth, he was sure. They would fit perfectly against his. It wouldn't take effort to win dominance, either, and Christophe liked dominance—usually. He would occassionally—it only happened when the person that he was with was worthy of such an opportunity, and few were—take the submissive role, though it was extremely rare to happen.

He wouldn't mind it with Pip, though it wouldn't be because he was worthy; it would be because it would allow him to teach a British boy a fact of life—the French do it better. He would do anything—everything—to the kid, and it would blow Pirrup's mind.

His mind went back to Damien—was he bigger than the boy? Would he be better? Would Pirrup allow him to do things that the Prince of Hell wasn't allowed to try? Would he be softer, more patient, more _loving_ with a kid that he didn't even like than the hell-spawn was?

He wouldn't doubt the last one—Damien really _did_ seem like he would be the type to enjoy BDSM—but he had seen the way that the Prince looked at Pirrup sometimes when the kid wasn't paying attention...

But that train of thought led Christophe to picturing Pip chained up in a way that made the boy stand straight up, stark naked, a flush covering his face along with his more private body parts.

"I wish that you wouldn't boss me around so. It's partly my project too, Christophe."

Christophe found irony in the fact that Pip had asked him not to 'boss him around so' while he was picturing him in a submissive state, but he didn't laugh; instead he rolled his eyes, choosing not to say anything.

Pip Pirrup was not the kind of person that he wanted to interact with. Pip Pirrup was nothing like him. Pip Pirrup could never understand him or his view points. Pip Pirrup was not the type of person that Christophe wanted to be friends with, he was not the type of person that Christophe wanted to be attracted to or to find interesting, and he was not the type of person that Christophe wanted to have wiggle into his heart; Pip Pirrup was not the type of person that Christophe wanted to love.

But, as The Rolling Stones have said, you can't always get what you want, which was something that Christophe had realized more than once in his life.

He would realize the same thing over time in regards to Pip Pirrup.


	5. Shet

Philip Pirrup was more attractive than what the people of South Park gave him credit for—Christophe would even go as far as calling him gorgeous. With soft, feminine features, expressive blue eyes, blond hair that had grown over the years to reach his shoulders, a pure, kind heart, smooth, bite-able lips, and soft skin, Christophe didn't understand why Pip wasn't sought after more.

If he had to guess, he would say that it had something to do with the boy's nationality—which he was willing to ignore at the moment—or because Damien was always standing over the kid's shoulder. Christophe wasn't afraid of Damien though—he had been to Hell and back once in his life already, and though he didn't want to go back there anytime soon, he wasn't afraid to die—and even if he was, the boy wasn't there at the moment.

No, it was just them—him and Pip—alone in his house, on his _bed_. His mother was at work—an added bonus to not having school that day; Christophe couldn't remember _why_ there wasn't any school, which seemed more than a little odd to him, but he was willing to overlook it at the moment—which allowed him to have someone over without her constantly bitching at him.

The fact that Philip—he had decided to call the boy by his proper name for the moment; "Pip" was unattractive and seemed to kill his mood by reminding him exactly _who_ he was with—was completely nude and in his bed made the day all the more perfect.

Philip was completely naked and sitting on Christophe's bed on his knees. His hands were on Christophe's headboard, his back was to the boy, and his legs were spread far enough for Christophe to move between them if he wanted—which is exactly what he did. Christophe himself wasn't wearing anything—he couldn't remember stripping, but he would think about that later; he had more pressing matters at hand—his dick was pressing against Philip's backside, for instance. Moving forward the tiniest bit, he allowed his member to slide between the Brit's ass cheeks, allowing it to press against the hole that it found between them.

Philip was a virgin, he could tell. The boy was squirming, whimpering, _begging_ for Christophe to be gentle. If it wasn't for the blonde's mantra of "Please, Christophe, be careful; I haven't done this before, and it seems like it might sting a bit," Christophe would think that Damien had just been inside of the Pirrup boy before and had gotten more than a bit rough while having his way with him. He trusted Philip though—the boy didn't seem like the type to lie. It didn't matter though anyway because Christophe wasn't _planning_ on making love—and that's what the French did; they made love—to the slim boy pressed against him just yet; he was saving that for the next time—and Philip would want a next time because Christophe was planning on taking such good care of him, it would be the only thing that the blond will be able to think about.

He wanted to make love to Philip—the dick pressed against the boy was so hard, Christophe imagined that his balls were turning blue—but it was too much for their first time. He would lick, kiss, suck, feel, touch, stretch, _love_; he would do all of the things that he usually did with his lovers other than that final step—which wasn't really their _final_ step when one considered all of the possibilities that you could have with someone else's body. The things that he planned on doing to Philip Pirrup in the future would have to wait though; he had a warm, expectant body pressed up against him at the moment, and that came first.

Christophe's hands had found their way to Philip's slim hips—hips that should be added to the list of reasons that made Philip Pirrup attractive. His thumbs were running circles over the smooth skin, trying to sooth the worried blond. It seemed to help—Philip was beginning to calm down, though it was just a little bit; Christophe had noticed that the blond was clutching his headboard tighter than necessary, so the panic wasn't completely gone. He had plenty of time to rid the boy of it completely though; they had _hours_ alone together, after all.

"O-oh, Christophe..."

Christophe had never paid attention to the way that Philip said his name until now. He should have—adults aside, Philip was one of the few people who lived in South Park that didn't call him "The Mole". If he didn't hate God, he would thank him for it; he had been called "The Mole" before during sex, and, surprisingly, it had been a turn off, possibly because of how unintimate it had been.

"What iz it?"

Pressed as closely against the Brit as he was, Christophe could smell the boy as well as he had been able to at school—and there was that nagging feeling again; why weren't they in school?—but this time, he had no complaints. He did like the smell lemons, after all, and it wasn't distracting him from any school related projects.

And why the _fuck_ weren't they in _school_? Pip was beginning to speak again though, so he would have to ponder over it later.

"Will you...That is, I mean, will you...Could you possibly..."

Christophe was curious—what would Philip Pirrup, possibly the most innocent person he had ever met (an amazing feat considering the boy's best friend and possibly lover was a demon), want from him? What could he want Christophe to do to him? Christophe doubted that Philip was the least bit perverted, so it couldn't be anything hard-core or unusual, but it was always the quiet ones, so you never knew...

"Yez? What iz it that you want? Tell me, what do you want me to do to you?"

He could feel Philip shaking; whether it was from excitement, anticipation, anxiety, or fear, Christophe didn't know—he hoped that it was the first one, but he doubted it. It was fear, more than likely. He would have to coax him out of it later.

"Can you...Will you please go slow?"

Oh. Christophe could feel himself frown; he hadn't expected anything _exotic_ to come from the boy, but did Philip expect him to rush things? That just wouldn't do. They weren't even going to consummate this time—a fact that he hadn't mentioned to the boy whose back was still pressed firmly against his chest, the boy that Christophe had been leaking pre-cum against for the last few minutes, the boy that he would slowly fall in love with if he didn't catch himself.

The French boy allowed his hands to slowly move from Philip's hips downwards until they reached the curves of his backside. He allowed them to rest there, cupping the boy's smooth ass in his calloused hands, as his thumbs begin to rub circles once again.

"Of courze."

Christophe moved back a bit until his dick slipped from between the boy's ass cheeks, but he kept his hands on them. He began to kiss a trail of kisses, making sure not to bite harshly like he had seen Damien do, from the back of Philip's neck—the boy had let out a soft, barely audible moan—to his shoulders. Philip was gripping the headboard harder than before, but Christophe took it as a sign this time that instead of feeling fear strongly like he had earlier, the blond was feeling pleasure; pleasure that Christophe hoped he had been the only one to give to him, pleasure that Christophe hoped that Damien had never offered. He moved on, kissing a trail down the boy's backbone, finally stopping at the small of his back.

"Are you sure that you 'ant to do this?"

Christophe didn't have to consider his own answer to the question; he wanted Philip, wanted him more than he could ever remember wanting anyone at that moment. He wanted Philip beneath him, on top of him, beside him, inside of him, wanted to _be_ inside of the boy. He wanted everything and anything.

It was _Philip _that he was concerned about. The boy was shy, innocent, soft, gentle, sweet, kind, a million other words that Christophe could never describe himself as. He couldn't bring himself to understand how someone like _him _could ever want Philip "Pip" Pirrup—he usually wasn't so attracted to weak people, and that wasn't even mentioning the fact that Philip happened to be _British—_yet alone how someone like _Philip_ could want him.

He apparently did though.

"I-I..._Yes_, Christophe, yes. I-I want it—a-all of it, I mean."

And that was all that it took—Christophe parted Philip's ass cheeks, his hands still resting firmly on them, ready to ravish _that _area with kisses, and leaned forward—

—only to wake up in bed.

He was quiet for a long moment, but finally...

"Jesus _Christ_! Shet! **SHET!**"

He had had a dream about Philip Pirrup. About Pip. About the school's British kid. And he had enjoyed it, a fact that he couldn't deny—his dick was still hard, pressed against his belly, and leaking pre-cum. He had only been working on that damn PowerPoint project with Pirrup for _one fucking day_, this one making number two, and he had already had a wet dream about the kid. Christophe felt like he was about to explode—both from anger and arousal.

Grunting, anger taking over him and making him rougher than he normally would be, he wrapped his hand around his dick and started tugging. There was nothing gentle or slow about it, nothing like the way he would treat Philip, and that thought, the lone thought regarding the blond boy who he had _refused_ to think about since he had started jerking off, was his final thought before he was finishing hard all over his hand.

"Shet, shet, shet, shet!"

He didn't want to go to school. He didn't want to work on that fucking PowerPoint with that fucking British boy. He didn't want to see the kid, he didn't want to watch as Damien covered himself with the boy (as he was bound to do), he didn't want to look at him in the face.

Because after a dream like _that_, he was bound to really shove Pirrup against the nearest wall and—

No. No, Christophe wasn't going to think about that. He would go to school, work on the project, only speak with it was vital, and finish the thing that day.

Because if he didn't, he would have to work on it at home. It was Friday, and the thing was due Monday.

Because if he didn't, Philip Pirrup, who Christophe _knew_ wouldn't let him work on the fucking thing by himself, would insist on coming over, his usual politeness be damned since it was _Christophe_ he was dealing with. Christophe doubted Pirrup had his own computer; he had seen the way that the blond had acted around technology, like he had never been up close to an actual computer before.

Which would mean that it really _would_ have to be his house that they would have to go to.

And Christophe's mother's working scheduele—she was already gone, he knew; she would have bitched at him for screaming curse words if she wasn't—would cause her to still be gone when the British boy was over.

Which would mean that they would be in his home, alone.

Fuck, he must have done something other than the usual to piss God off this badly.


	6. Other Kids

**Thursday, right after the teacher had listed of their partners:**

"O-oh, boy howdy.."

Butters was sitting at his desk, staring down at it, while he twiddled his thumbs. After a certain amount of time passed—every ten seconds, periodically, Eric noted—the blond would look up to stare at his new partner—Tweek Tweak.

Tweek himself was fidgeting, though it was more twitchy than Butters' movements. The green-eyed blond—Butters' eyes were blue, which Eric had noticed years ago; Eric usually didn't bother to remember such insignificant things as someone's eye color, but as much as Butters hung around him, there would be something wrong with him if he didn't remember that the kid had soft, blue eyes—kept moving his neck in a way that would cause anyone else's—anyone _normal_ anyway, and Tweek Tweek was _not_ normal—neck to break. The kid did it so much though that no one even paid attention anymore. The same could have also been said about the scream of "Oh, sweet Jesus!" that had filled the room when their teacher—Eric couldn't bother to remember the bitch's name—had announced that he would be partners with Butters.

Really, Eric didn't see why Tweek was being such a pussy about Butters being his new partner. Sure, the kid was annoying as fuck most of the time. Sure, if Butters thought that you liked him, he would cling to you like a life-line. Sure, the kid's parents were freaks. Other than that though, Tweek was lucky—Butters wouldn't dick around with him like almost all of the kids in class did, and the blue-eyed boy usually did what he was told without question. The perfect partner, really, if one ignored all of Butters' irritating habits, and if they finished their project at school—which Eric doubted they would—then Tweek wouldn't have to put up with the kid's relatives. Tweek didn't have a right to complain about his partner, it seemed.

Eric, on the other hand though...

Clyde Donovan. Clyde-Fucking-Donovan. The biggest retard at South Park High.

Well, no, that wasn't right—Clyde was the school's _second_ biggest retard; after looking the class over, his chestnut eyes inspecting each and every new partnership, Eric concluded that their teacher, Mrs. Whogivesafuck, had to fill the number one position. She probably thought that she had been helping all of them by expanding their social circles or some shit, but she was wrong. They all knew each other already—they _had_ grown up with each other, after all—and working together on a fucking PowerPoint project—a project that was ensured to fail as soon as she closed her eyes, which Eric was sure she had done, and picked their partners—wasn't going to cause them to grow closer or branch out.

Or maybe she wasn't completely retarded. Maybe she was just sadistic; none of the people that she paired up usually spoke to each other, and if they _did,_ then they didn't get along, and Eric would laugh at his classmates if he wasn't in the same boat that they were in—if he wasn't stuck with Clyde-fucking-Donovan. Hell, he might _still_ laugh—Butters was clearly outside of his comfort zone, and it was _hilarious_. He might just like this teacher yet.

Or, a third and less likely reason, she _wanted _them all to fail; not to be sadistic, but so they'd all fail her class and she would get them again the next term. A teacher that actually _liked _her class? And at _this _school? Yeah. Right. That'll happen around the same time that Craig stops flipping people off and Wendy admits that her and Bebe have totally hooked up.

It was more than likely the first option, though Eric would much rather it be the second one. It wasn't all bad though; it could be worse. He could have Damien as a partner; the kid was s psycho _and_ a freak—he was currently molesting the town's resident fag, Pip Pirrup. Pip would also make a worse partner than Clyde. And so would Craig; that asshole just pissed Eric off, and though Clyde did as well, he wasn't as bad as Craig. He could have _Tweek _as a partner, which would mean that he would have to put up with constant screaming. Or, worse than any of them put together, he could have been paired up with _Kyle_, the no good Jew-Rat. Yes, he would count his lucky stars that he was put with Clyde. The kid was a retard, yes, and he was stubborn and irritating at times, but at least he wasn't a Jew.

Besides, Clyde was way hotter than Kyle.

Speaking of having Tweek as a partner though...

"Hey, Butters, shouldn't you be going over to your new partner now? He looks _real _lonely."

The blond didn't, of course; he looked like he would be perfectly fine to be left alone for the remainder of his life. But Butters was fine in small doses—he was usually Eric's second choice of a partner, the first being Kenny—as any minion was, but he had been sitting there fidgeting for too long; it was beginning to irritate the heavier boy, and he wanted rid of him. Besides, Butters would only be a distraction, and he wanted to hurry and finish his work.

And if he got a little time in to stare at Clyde's sweet ass, well, that was all good, too.

"R-Really? Y-you really thi-think so, E-Eric? Well, g-golly! I guess I should t-try to go cheer him up then."

And just like that, Butters was gone, probably in the hopes that he would be able to make a new friend; the kid took any chance that he got, after all. Eric could see them—hear them, even—all the way across the room.

He could see Butters drop his materials for class—after all these years, the boy still collected Hello Kitty folders and note books—onto Tweek's desk. Tweek, not noticing Butters making his way over to him, screamed in shock and fear. Butters, worried that he had dropped his books onto Tweek's hands, took them into his own to inspect them. Apparently seeing something that he took as an injury from his books landing on his new partner's hands—they were actually just cut marks from a piece of glass that had shattered when he had jerked and knocked a plate onto the floor the night before, though Eric didn't know that particular piece of information, and he didn't care to know—he brought them to his lips, Tweek jerking and screaming the whole time while Butters shushed him, and pressed a kiss to them.

Really, it was a total fag-fest.

Tweek's face was flushed; Eric could see the red spreading over his cheeks even though they were desks apart. He could also hear Tweek's panicked "W-what are you _**doing**_? Gah!" and Butters' reply of "W-well, tryin' to make you f-feel better, silly."

It would probably be pretty funny if the whole thing wasn't so gay.

And, speaking of gay, Clyde was walking across the room to sit by him. Being the uncoordinated retard that he is, however, he dropped his pencil on the way over to Eric's seat—it had probably took the whole five minutes that had passed since their teacher had listed off that they were partners for Clyde to realize that Eric wasn't going to be the one to move—instead of holding onto it for the whole ten steps that it would take to walk across the room. Eric's eyes followed it as it rolled behind the Donovan boy, but he quickly moved them back up to watch as Clyde's ass as he bent over to retrieve it.

Maybe he would learn to like their teacher after all.

**...**

**A/N: **Okay, I wrote this chapter because I said that there would be Butters/Tweek, and I would feel like a douche if I didn't add it in after saying that. Also, because...Well, Clyde/Cartman is just hot.

And, as a side note, I feel that I should say that no, I don't think that people who can't hold pencils are retards. I'm pretty uncoordinated—I either fall over or run into someone five days out of seven in a week, and I'm not exaggerating—so no, I don't hold that opinion. Cartman, on the other hand, does.

And thank everyone for reading and reviewing. I hope that the focus on the different characters in this chapter didn't throw you off any.


	7. Beauty in Tears

**Friday:**

"Will you fucking WORK already? Jesus _Christ!_"

"I am! You just won't use any of my ideas!"

"I would if zhey weren't all so idiotic!"

"They're not! You just won't give them a chance!"

It took a lot to make Philip "Pip" Pirrup get so angry that he screamed at someone, but he had been arguing with Christophe since the class had begun, and he was loosing his temper; there was only thirty minutes left of class, and if they didn't hurry and finish their PowerPoint, then they would have to work on it at Christophe's house because Pip didn't have his own computer. And Pip did _not _want to go into enemy grounds.

Pip didn't cry often. He was an orphan, yes, and his sister treated him like dirt, but he wasn't lonely like he had been during his earlier years in South Park—he had Damien, and Damien never let him become lonely. Pip still missed his parents, of course, but he had accepted years ago that they were in a better place, and that he didn't need to worry about them. They were happy, he was sure, wherever they were at that moment.

He, however, wasn't. He wasn't lonely, no; though Damien was working on his own project (well, making his partner do all of the work while he instructed), the prince was still in the room with him, and if Pip asked him to, he would move across the room to where Pip was sitting with Christophe, drop everything that he was doing, all to keep him company. So, no, Pip wasn't lonely.

He was becoming frustrated—rather quickly, too. Christophe wouldn't listen to a thing that he said, and it was bothering him; he wanted a good grade, and he was brighter than Christophe was, though he was above pointing this out to the other boy, so Christophe should at least _listen_ to his suggestions.

Philip Pirrup, though he hated that he did it, couldn't help his natural reaction when he became frustrated—he cried. He wasn't sure when or why he picked the nasty habit up, but if he had to guess, it would be because after years of patience and loneliness his body couldn't take it anymore—it needed to vent, and it took every opportunity to do so that he allowed it. He couldn't remember crying when he became frustrated during the dodge ball games that he had participated in when he was younger, so it had to have happened sometime after that—sometime during middle school, he would guess.

It didn't matter when it _started _though, just when it _happened—_and it was happening at that very moment.

He was sure that Christophe would laugh at him; Pip was sure that their hatred was mutual, and Christophe certainly _acted_ like he hated him. Just earlier that very day, Philip had decided to be polite and had wished him a good morning; the very moment that he had said Christophe's name though, the boy gave him an odd look and looked away, all the while gritting his teeth. Really, what an odd fellow. The only thing that Pip could conclude was that Christophe really _did_ hate him.

So why was he not being laughed at?

The other students in their class would have laughed at him, so why wasn't the only one that Philip didn't like doing so?

Of course, Philip was British, so he wouldn't understand that Christophe didn't laugh because the French didn't believe in laughing at things that they found beautiful—especially while said things were crying. And Christophe found Philip beautiful even while he dried; maybe more so.

And _Jesus __fucking __**Christ**__, _he did _not _just think that Philip "Pip" Pirup was beautiful, did he?

His dream must have set something off; there was no way that under normal circumstances he would call Pirrup 'beautiful', even if he found the boy attractive—which he had already admitted to himself that he did. His dream must have fucked his brain up somehow; Pirrup had called him by his first name when the class had begun, and Christophe had noticed that he had liked the way that it had sounded, even _if_ the voice pronouncing it had a British accent—before the dream, he had never noticed.

"Are you..._crying_?"

"Oh, Heavens! I do apologize; I must look like a mess!"

A beautiful one.

And SHET, he needed to stop thinking that. Pirrup's eyes were bloodshot, as were his cheeks. Very few tears had leaked out of his eyes, but those that had were noticeable, and it should have been irritating Christophe—people who were cried, especially around someone else, were pussies—but it wasn't.

Why the _fuck _in _fucking hell_ wasn't it bothering him?

And even though Pirrup _did_ look like a mess, why was he still so fucking...beautiful...to Christophe? Why didn't he feel like laughing at the boy?

God must have done something; it was the only thing that he could think of. God must have made his dream screw with his mind.

But when Pirrup sniffed, wiped his nose and eyes with the back of his hand, and tried to smile, it wasn't disgusting—Christophe knew that it _should _have been, but it wasn't—and the thought that maybe it hadn't been God, maybe he just genuinely found the boy sitting beside him beautiful, entered his head.

Shet. Shet. SHET!

There had to be something wrong with him, there had to be.

Because if God didn't tamper with his mind, then...Well, then he wanted to kiss Pirrup, he wanted to gently press his lips against the boys, he wanted to fucking _hug_ him, he wanted to make him stop crying, he wanted all of that, and it wouldn't be God's fault.

He didn't like the idea of something going wrong in his life not being God's fault, but as Pirrup sniffed one final time, brushed his own hair out of his face, tried to smile once again, and uttered a small apology, Christophe didn't think that it _was_ God's fault.

No, Christophe felt even more attracted to Philip Pirrup than he had the day before, but this time was different. This time he felt more _drawn_ to the boy, and not just in a 'I want to fuck your brains out' way. The fact that he wanted to give the kid a fucking hug was proof of that.

Shet.

Shet, he was in trouble.


	8. Intertwined

**Friday: **

"Maybe we should make this slide red, white, and blue..."

Unlike most of his classmates, Butters wasn't irritated by his partner; no, actually he had decided that Tweek was a pretty cool guy. He didn't rip on him like most of the other boys—and some of the girls—in the class did, and he even let him voice his own ideas. Even if Tweek _did_ shout that it was too much pressure every time Butters asked him if he thought that their PowerPoint should look a certain way or have a certain tidbit of information, Butters didn't mind; he was just happy that someone would listen to _him _for once.

"Gah! I can't decide! It's too much pressure, man!"

Tweek was twitching around in his seat, and though it had freaked Butters out at first (he had seen the boy do it over the years, of course, but seeing something and being up and close with it were two very different things), he was becoming accustomed to it. Tweek was, after all, his partner, and Butters couldn't let his partner freak him out, now could he? No, he would have to act like Tweek was normal—which he was; he was a normal boy, just like Butters, and the only difference between them was that the green-eyed boy was "all jacked up on coffee", as Eric Cartman would say. Butters just called it being nervous.

Maybe, if they were around each other long enough, if they were to become friends, Butters would be able to help Tweek overcome his nervous ticks. It was certainly something that he wouldn't mind doing—Tweek was growing on him, after all.

Though it was hard to hear over Tweek's shrill shriek, Butters realized that the bell was ringing—they had run out of time to finish their project at school.

"U-uh oh. I-if I don't finish my P-PowerPoint project, I'll be g-grounded for sure."

He didn't make a move for the door, choosing to stay in his seat; he wasn't going to skip his next class, of course, because that would get him grounded as well, but Tweek was still in his own seat twitching and muttering to himself something that sounded suspiciously like "Oh Jesus!"—Butters was about sure that the boy was waiting for everyone else to leave the class in fear that he would be trampled if he tried to go out of the room before everyone else was out—and Butters wanted to talk to him before he went to Home Ec.

"Oh God! Really? Would they do that? You don't think that my parents will ground _me_, do you?"

Butters reached out to pat Tweek on the shoulder, trying to sooth the boy's nerves, and tried not to feel too disappointed when Tweek jerked back and screeched not to hurt him.

"W-well, I would n-never h-hurt you. I-I don't know about your parents though, so you b-better come to my house to w-work on it tonight."

And just like that, Butters had an excuse to spend more time with Tweek. Besides, his parents really would ground him if he didn't finish the darn thing.

"Oh God! I can't! It's too much pressure!"

Butters stood, ready to go since they were the only ones left in the class; their teacher had even left. Butters began to wonder where it is that teachers go to, but he had more important things—Tweek, for instance, along with not getting grounded—to think about. He took the twitchy boy's hand in his own, tugging at in an attempt to get the boy to stand up, and wouldn't let go even when Tweek tried to pull away.

"Oh God! Gah! Don't tear my hand out of its socket!"

"I-I'm not going to! Now-now, you s-stop that!" Butters didn't get assertive often—it had to be something pretty darn important to cause him to act that way—and it didn't seem to be helping the situation—Tweek was more panicked now than he had been before—so he softened his voice. "I'm not going to h-hurt you, okay? N-now, come o-on before we're l-late for class."

Tweek whimpered and let out a quiet "Oh God, I don't want to be late!", but it seemed to be working; the boy seemed calmer, and he was no longer screaming for Butters not to hurt him, so the Stotch boy would count that as a win. He even got to hold on to Tweek's hand because the boy was no longer trying to pull away! It didn't even matter that the kids in the halls would call them fags—no one ever let Butters hold their hand, and he was going to take the opportunity when it was offered to him. Besides, Tweek's hand was warm and smooth; Butters liked the way that it felt in his own.

"A-and you w-will come to my house tonight because i-it's the only way that we can b-both get finished so we won't be g-grounded."

Well, one last bit of being assertive couldn't hurt much, right? Especially not if it got Tweek to come over, right? But it did hurt—Tweek was shaking and muttering "Oh God" repeatedly; Butters, wanting the boy to trust that he wasn't going to hurt him, intertwined their fingers together.

He wasn't sure if it was really happening or if it was just wishful thinking on his part, but after a loud shriek, Tweek seemed to calm down a bit more.

Butters decided to keep their fingers intertwined.

...

"Fuck, Clyde! You fucking idiot!"

Clyde had replaced their teacher as the school's number one retard. Not only did the kid not know how to work a computer—Eric had forgotten until then that the boy would rather look at Playboys than play computer games—but he had...he had...Eric was seeing red; he was so angry that he was having trouble forming _thoughts_.

The fucker had just erased their whole project. All of it. The whole thing. The whole fucking thing. And the bell was ringing.

He was having trouble wrapping his mind around it—the _whole _project was gone. Forever. Another thought was beginning to form—the he should make Clyde work on it alone at his own home. But then the retard would probably fuck it up.

And why should he make Clyde work alone when he could get the boy back at his place? He was sure his mom wouldn't mind if he had a little _company _over, and she was usually gone these days anyway. Maybe he could tie Clyde up and make him _beg _for Eric's forgiveness... Oh, yes, that sounded good.

"We'll have to work on it at my place, you fucking moron! Be over by eight, and if you're not, I'll hunt you down and turn your parents into chili!"

And after that, he was gone; he was rushing out of the door, pushing people out of the way, and knocking a few students—and holy fuck, did he just knock down the teacher?—on the way out. He wasn't in a hurry to get to class, of course. Oh no, he would skip class—he needed plenty of time to plan for the night ahead of him, after all.


	9. Connection?

Embarrassment was a beautiful thing, in a way. Most people didn't think so, but Philip Pirrup, as his his best friend, Damien, had realized, was not normal. It took a certain type of person to find beauty in a negative feeling, especially one as negative as embarrassment, but Philip was the rare type of human who could find it—and he had. It was hard to see past his initial embarrassment when he started to cry in front of Christophe—surely the boy was going to tell the others; he didn't care if Christophe himself thought lowly of him, but he _did_ care about what the other children thought—but then he saw it; he saw the hidden beauty.

Christophe wasn't laughing at him. He was scowling, certainly, but the expression that he was making was similar to the one that Damien made when he cried, and Pip was well adjusted to the look due to years of exposure to it. The point though wasn't the expression that had made its way onto Christophe's face—it was that he _wasn't _laughing like Pip thought he would be. Pip had found the beauty in the moment, alright—he had found beauty in _Christophe_.

_Oh dear..._

Christophe wasn't laughing at him though, and that was a good thing, right? It was certainly unexpected. Perhaps the boy was kinder than he had thought? Perhaps he had misjudged him? Philip Pirrup was not one who enjoyed misjudging people, and his stomach felt sick at the very thought of misjudging someone, especially when that someone could have been a friend; Damien was wonderful, but new friends could never hurt, after all.

Perhaps he had been wrong in misjudging the French? But, no, he wouldn't go _that _far; not yet, anyway. He would settle for misjudging the boy sitting by him; Christophe's nation as a whole would have to come later, sometime after he could evaluate the French boy better.

Another apology—he had lost count of how many he had made already—slipped from his lips, but this one was different; this one was an apology for something else, for judging the foreign boy. Christophe was, after all, just that—a foreigner who, like Pip, was no longer in his own country. A foreigner who, like Pip, was stuck with Americans who didn't appreciate him, who didn't _understand _him.

He didn't tell Christophe this though, choosing to let the boy believe that he still thought the same of him as he had the day before. Something had changed though, and they both could feel it; something had _shifted_, and because it went unspoken, neither knew that the other had accepted him the tiniest bit.

"Terribly sorry, Christophe. It won't happen again, I promise."

And it wouldn't, he promised to himself—and though he had broken a promise to himself just that week, he intended to keep this one.

But Christophe? Christophe couldn't make promises to himself. He was tough—he was a mercenary, so he _had_ to be—so it wasn't an issue of self control; he just didn't _want_ to make any promises in regard to _anyone_, especially when that person was Philip Pirrup. He didn't want to be tied down. He didn't want to make a promise to himself that he would protect the boy sitting by him. He didn't want to let the boy effect him anymore than he already had.

It was too late though. The way that the Brit said his name, the way that once irritated him, now sent shivers up his spine. The boy's bright blue eyes had become hard _not_ to stare into—and speaking of hard, he _was_. There had to be something wrong with him. He had to be weak to let something as small as a dream effect him—and Christophe did _not_ like to be weak.

No, he couldn't make a promise to himself to protect Philip Pirrup, to never let the boy get hurt again, to never let the kid _cry _again. Because Christophe himself was considering harming the boy if it meant that whatever connection forming between them—and he could _feel_ the fucking connection forming—would be broken.

"Stop your pussy crying."

And just like that, whatever had been forming between them was broken. Christophe watched as Pip's blue eyes widened; a new string of tears begin to leak from them. The blond began to rub furiously at his eyes, trying to hide the fact that the fact that he was crying.

Somehow, Christophe didn't think that he would get an apology for the tears this time. Or ever again, for that matter.

He should feel better—if he pushed Pip away, he wouldn't feel as connected to the boy. He wouldn't want to be close to him. He wouldn't want to...

Christ, he wouldn't want to _kiss the boy's tears away_.

Fuck, he was in trouble. He _didn't _feel any better; he felt worse. He felt like a prick—though he knew that he _was _one (he was told by his mother often enough), he never actually felt guilty, so he never _felt _like one. Until now, that is.

And Christophe didn't like it one bit.

And he couldn't make himself—or Pip, for that matter, though he was unsure if he _wanted_ to—feel any better any time soon because the next thing that he knew, Damien, the Prince from Hell, was shoving him up against the nearest wall. One look at the demon-boy's dark red eyes let him know that he was in trouble—that there was a very real possibility that he might be visiting the prince's old home.

"What the _fuck_ did you do to him?"

The whole class was watching them, teacher included. No one seemed prepared to stop the situation that was quickly unfolding. Their teacher, who was usually so strict, seemed too surprised to even stop what was going on.

Christophe could feel it—he was going to Hell. He had sinned, he knew. That part didn't bother him. What _did _bother him was that it wasn't his _own_ way of death; he would go out like a pussy, struck down before his time. Damien, he decided, was as bad as God. Not worse, of course, but just as bad.

He could feel something else though; he could feel Pip's eyes on him, watching the scene just like everyone else in the room. The Pirrup boy should have been used to Damien's behaviour—they all should have grown accustomed to it over the years, but you never get used to someone ripping heads off of bodies or students miraculously turning into animals—but Christophe could could see him out of the corner of his eye, and the blond looked just as shocked as everyone else.

But Christophe moved his line of sight so he was focused entirely on the demon that had his hand wrapped firmly around Christophe's neck, nails sinking into the French boy's flesh. He didn't see Philip swallow, tears now running freely down his cheeks, and step forward.

He did, however, _hear _him.

"Damien," Philip's voice shook, but he didn't stop to catch his breath. "Let him go."


	10. Dance With the Devil

**A/N: **I want to give a special shout out to RisaShootingStar who made TWO pieces of fan art for this fic. The links are on my page, and I suggest looking at them. They're good. And, again, thank you!

Also, the title for this chapter comes from the Breaking Benjamin song. And yeah, I know that Damien isn't actually the devil—he's pretty close to it though.

**...**

Damien was hurting him. Pip had seen Damien hurt enough people for the signs of pain to be obvious—eyes watering, teeth clenched, body thrashing. Christophe was stronger than that though, and if it wasn't for the look in his eyes—Pip had never seen such a stare, not from any of Damien's other victims—he would have thought that Christophe was fine. The boy wasn't fine though, and even if he had been a prick to him before, Pip felt as if he had to _do_ something before the situation got even worse than it already was.

Besides, Damien's hand was searing hot and it was burning the flesh of Christophe's neck, scarring it. Not only did no one deserve that—Pip was never one for harsh punishment—but the smell of the French boy's burned off skin was making him sick.

He swallowed, getting ready to speak, and took a step towards his friend.

"Damien," His voice shook, but he couldn't stop; Christophe's blood was beginning to drip onto the floor, and he wasn't sure how much longer the boy would be able to last if he _did_. "Let him go."

No one acted as if they heard him; Christophe's dark eyes didn't spare him a glance, which bothered him, but he didn't have time to think about _why_; Damien didn't stop what he was doing, which didn't surprise him—once the prince set his mind to something, it was hard to get him to change it; the students and teacher still had their eyes glued to Damien's hand, not helping a bit. Philip _knew_ that they did though; the only sounds other than his own voice had been—and still _were—_the breathing of the people in the room and, though he didn't like thinking about it, the sound of blood hitting the floor.

Another step forward.

He had to be brave. Damien would never hurt him, after all. There was nothing to fear. Besides, even if he _did _get harmed—which would be an accident, he was sure—Damien could always resurrect him unless he went to Heaven, and if he went to Heaven, he would get to be with his parents. Everything would be okay in the end.

So why was he so terrified?

He could feel the heat radiating off of his friend. Damien always felt so _warm_ when he was angry. It was never a good sign. Christophe would die soon if he didn't do something.

Another step forward.

"Damien," He wanted to pause, to swallow again. There was no time though. "Damien, please. For me."

Damien still wasn't listening though. His teeth were gritting together and his hand was wrapping itself tighter around Christophe's neck. Time was running out, and Philip beginning to panic. He had an idea, but there was a good chance that he could be hurt in the process; he could never stand to see someone in pain though, so it would be worth it—he would do what seemed to be Damien's favorite pass-time.

He took one last step forward so he was standing directly behind his only true friend in the world. Finally allowing himself to swallow, he reached out in front of him, wrapping his slim arms around Damien's waist. He could imagine the dark haired boy's eyes widening before they narrowed to slits; if Damien was surprised though, he still didn't show it—he still didn't let Christophe go. Deciding that more extreme measures were needed, he moved even closer; his whole front was pressed firmly against Damien's back. He was hoping that it would be enough to distract Damien from what he was doing—as much as Damien touched him, Philip had never pressed up against him like this before; he was hoping that the feeling would be alien enough to Damien for it to shock him into letting Christophe go—but Damien's focus was strong; his hand was still wrapped around Christophe's burning neck, though it wasn't as tight as it had been before, and Pip liked to imagine that he saw it shaking just a bit. Maybe Damien would let go if he did just a bit more...

Damien was hotter than he had imagined though, and the heat, along with the smell of burning flesh, was making him feel light headed. His head fell against the crook of Damien's neck, and despite how determined he was to save Christophe, he couldn't bother to move it. Still, he couldn't give up.

"Please, Damien," He had to pause this time—the heat was getting to him. "You're making me sick.."

His last four words seemed to do it; Damien dropped Christophe, causing him to crash to the floor. If he was angry with Philip for trying to protect his believed-to-be abuser, the blond couldn't tell; blackness was closing in on him, a fact that Damien wasn't aware of, and he would be passing out soon; he recognized what it felt like to lose consciousness from all of the times that he had been beat up by bullies until he had passed out years earlier, and he had never been strong enough to win the battle to stay awake.

Now was no different. He could feel himself going as he literally felt himself falling—Damien had vanished, choosing to go back to Hell for the time being to cool off, his last words being a sneered "Whatever". So he was angry then. Well, he would deal with that later, he decided. He could feel himself being lifted up by someone—Christophe, he believed—and that was the last thing that he thought about before finally giving in to the darkness that had been trying to lure him in.

If he had stayed awake, he would have heard the teacher, who had finally come out of her shock, order Christophe to take him to the nurse; the boy would have to be looked at himself, after all. He would have seen the French boy scan his appearance over to check for burns before he picked him up. He would have heard Christophe whisper a soft "Thank you" in his ears, and he would have noticed a softness in the boy's eyes that hadn't been there before—eyes that he was still fascinated with.

What he wouldn't have seen, however, would have been Damien's erection, an erection that _he_ had caused just by holding the boy from behind. No, he would have to deal with Damien later.

At the moment he had a French boy holding him, a boy that was quickly growing attached to him.

If Pip had known all of this, he would have wondered why it was _him_ that the two toughest boys—toughest, not cruelest; though Damien was high up there on the list, Christophe could never beat Eric Cartman for either the number one or number two spot (it was bad when you couldn't decide if an obese boy that you grew up with or the son of Satan should hold the number one spot) for the cruelest—in their grade both now held a soft spot for him.

Of course, Pip _didn't _know it, and Christophe wasn't going to come out and _say_ it; emotions were for pussies, after all, and he was not a pussy. No, only time would tell—and that time was approaching them quickly.


	11. Waking Up

Philip noticed four things upon waking; the first, he realized, was that he had no idea where he was; the second was that he could feel a pair of eyes watching him—something that would sound impossible to most people, but he often spent the night with Damien, and it wasn't rare for him to wake up only to find the boy-slash-demon's red eyes resting on him; thirdly, his stomach was having a bit of a fit, a fact that he unfortunately realized when he tried to sit up, which led to the fourth realization—he was in someone's room. More specifically, he was laying on someone's very unfamiliar bed—a bed that smelt like smoke.

Oh dear.

Damien hadn't taken him to Hell again, had he? The last visit was rather tiring. But, no, he would have recognized the room that he was currently in if that was the case. As far as he could remember, he had never seen the bed sheets, the furniture, the French posters on the—well, he felt rather silly at not having realized where he was sooner.

He was in Christophe's room.

Again, _oh dear._

He tried to sit up again, but he felt nauseous and had to lay back down. He felt as if he was going to throw up; passing out had always done that to him, and he hadn't missed the feeling. The smell that had made him feel sick earlier—the smell of _burning flesh—_was also a factor, but he didn't want to think about that at the moment; he forced the thoughts away.

"Oh, my poor aching tummy." The smell of smoke, which he had always disliked, was making him dizzy. "I'll just..rest my head a bit." And he did—he laid his head down so it was resting on one of Christophe's pillows. The sheets were soft against his skin, and if he didn't fight it, he would lose consciousness once again—Christophe's voice put an end to that though.

"Do not try to 'ove around so 'ery much. You were sick, yes?"

His voice was rasphy—a result of being choked for such a long period of time as Christophe had been. Philip hadn't noticed it before, but he rather liked Christophe's usual voice. It was deep, slightly husky, powerful—it held qualities that his own soft voice was lacking. The girls in their grade agreed with him, he knew; he could remember them making a list of which boys had the best voices back in the fifth grade, the last year that they were still young enough to bother with such things. He could remember Christophe placing somewhere in the top five, his own place being somewhere in the lower three. At the time he had thought that it had something to do with his accent, but now that he—oh blimey, his _accent_! Here he was, a _British_ boy, sitting on a French boy's bed, thinking about how attractive said boy's voice is! He had never felt like such a traitor to his mother country, not even when he moved from it. Oh dear. That would just not do.

Really though, it couldn't be helped. He had decided to try to get to know Christophe, after all, and if he was going to be friends with someone, he couldn't act as if he was better than them; being a gentleman meant just that, after all—being a gentle man to everyone, even the French, it seemed. Besides, Christophe's voice usually was quite attractive. Philip had known for years that he preferred lads over girls—the reason that he was no longer with Estella—and Christophe had something about him that seemed to draw people in; of course, he never took an interest in them, and even if he _did_, Philip doubted that he would want _him_. Besides, Damien would never allow it. Speaking of Damien though...

"Oh, I'm jolly good. Don't worry about little old _me_."

He tried to sit up again, gritting his teeth to help keep back the urge to vomit, but he only managed to sit half way upright on his own; Christophe, who had been sitting on top of a desk placed by a window in the corner of the room, moved by the edge of the bed to help him sit up the rest of the way. Now propped up against the headboard of the bed, he could see Christophe, who had sat by him on the other side of the bed, better than he would have been able to if he had stayed laying down. The boy's hair was as mused as it usually was, his clothes—steel toe boots; a dark, thin green shirt; a pair of gloves with holes in them for his thin fingers to poke through; a pair of dark trousers with chains hanging off of them; a studded belt—seemed to be the same from earlier that day, and he seemed to be fine other than the gauze wrapped around his neck; it was the gauze that worried Philip though.

"It's you that we should worry about. Why, Damien nearly killed you!"

And he would give him a stern talking to for that later—not that it would do any _good_. Still, it seemed like the proper thing to do, and Philip was a proper young lad.

"Nonsense. It is you that needs medical attenzion. You could 'ave burned trying to save me."

The French boy reached a hand out, his nimble fingers brushing hair away from Philip's neck. The blond wasn't watching them though; his eyes were focused on Christophe's own, watching as they searched his body once again for more burns. He swallowed, the attention from the other boy making him nervous—and then Christophe's words, 'medical attention', came back to him.

"Oh no! I'm fine, I promise. My stomach is a bit sore, but other than that, I don't think that I'm harmed. Damien would never hurt me, after all. I just feel a bit sick." He began searching his pockets for something; the motion was making him feel sicker, but determination pushed him on. Finally, his movement produced a reward; he pulled a tube of medication from his back pocket. "He gave me this as a precaution though. Just in case something did happen. You can really never be too careful." He glanced up in an attempt to make eye contact, but his gaze feel on the gauze around Christophe's neck again; he nodded at it so the boy would better understand what he was about to get at. "It helps with burns. You-you may use it if you'd like."

He wasn't sure why he stuttered, but it could have had something to do with the fact that he was giving a gift from Damien to Christophe. His friend wouldn't like it, he knew. Damien wasn't around at the moment, and it was his fault that Christophe needed the cream in the first place. The cream would help with the boy's burns; it wasn't man-made, it was something that one of Damien's workers had made, and it would cause the burns to heal faster and cleaner than anything Christophe could buy.

He made a move to hand the tube to the boy sitting beside him, but Christophe shook his head in refusal.

"Please? It will help an awful lot, I promise!"

Christophe reached out his hand once again, but it wasn't to take the tube; instead, he rested it over Philip's. Pip could feel a blush begin to cover his cheeks, a blush that he tried to fight. It was no use though. Christophe's warm, calloused hand was covering his, and until it moved, Pip didn't think that the blush making its way across his cheeks would leave.

"I'm not refusing, you silly boy. I 'ant you to put it on me."

His slim fingers were wrapping around Pip's, and the blond was finding it hard to concentrate. If it was possible, he felt sicker than he had before, but this time it felt oddly nice—like there were butterflies flapping around in his stomach.

Oh dear, is this what love felt like?

"Good Heavens! Why ever so?"

Christophe raised his free hand, and for a small moment, Philip thought that he was going to cup his face with it. He felt his cheeks heat up more than they already were, and he felt himself a bit disappointed when the brunette rested it on his own neck; he was pulling the gauze off.

"Because I 'ant you to. That should be reason enough."

And Philip, whose blood was beginning to go south instead of to his face, nodded; he decided that yes, that _was _reason enough. Christophe let go of his hand and disappointment filled him at the loss of contact. It soon vanished though; Christophe tilted his head sideways so Philip would have a better angle to apply the medical cream. The blond felt nervous—_shy—_but the French boy looked expectant, so he uncapped the lid on the tube, smearing some of the cream inside onto his thin fingers. It was white, and if he was a perverse boy—which Christophe truly _was_, though Philip was ignorant of that little fact—he would think that it looked like cum. He swallowed, glancing up and making eye contact for a few seconds, before slowly reaching out to rub the cream onto Christophe's neck.

Christophe was gritting his teeth, but the scars seemed like they were already healing. Pip kept rubbing, making sure not to miss any of the scarred tissue. After a while, Christophe relaxed and let his eyes close; Pip's hands were experienced from years of rubbing ointments onto bruises put there by bullies, and the tension was slipping from the mercenary's body. He was beginning to feel warm—he hadn't felt this comfortable in...hell, he couldn't even remember when the last time was.

And then it was over. Pip had removed his hand from Christophe's neck, and he was about to screw the cap back onto the tube. Without pausing to think about it, Christophe reached out and grabbed Philip's hand before the cap was all the way on, stopping the boy before he could finish what he was doing.

"No—you're not 'inished."

Pip seemed hesitant at first, but he nodded, giving in.

"Oh..Well, of course, Christophe."

The blond screwed the lid all of the way off and placed it on the small table sitting beside Christophe's bed. He rubbed the lotion onto his skin once again, but this time he used both of his hands after Christophe suggested to do so.

His soft hands were on Christophe's neck again, and the French boy found himself quickly relaxing again. It was hard not to when Philip's warm hands were massaging his neck. He found himself imagining what it would be like for those smooth hands to be on his dick instead of his neck, and that was when he realized it—he was hard.

He hoped to the God that he hated that Pip hadn't noticed.


End file.
